


The Last Kingdom - Finan’s Trouble At Tamweorthin

by RearAdmiral



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:55:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29287917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RearAdmiral/pseuds/RearAdmiral
Summary: This scene is from Book 11, War of the Wolf. Uhtred and Sigtrygrr are in Tamweorthin trying to survive long enough to get in front of Edward at the Witan.Finan is bored and drunk and wanders into trouble when he gets dragged into a narrow alley by a randy Saxon.
Relationships: Finan & Uhtred of Bebbanburg, Finan/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Kudos: 3





	The Last Kingdom - Finan’s Trouble At Tamweorthin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FoxCollector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxCollector/gifts).



‘And where do you think you’re going?’ 

Finan was drunk, he hadn’t realised quite how drunk until he had left the royal hall for a piss, and had managed to bounce off both sides of the archway and scrape himself along the wall of the palace in order to reach the alley, something he had found funny enough to make him giggle out loud. 

He turned, wobbling slightly, squinting into the gloom to try and pinpoint where the question had come from, his eyes still adjusting from the light of the hall. He was suddenly acutely aware he was unarmed, they had all been obliged to give up their swords at the gateway to the hall, and Finan cursed himself under his breath for being so careless. He had left Uhtred up on the dais, and had left Berg in deep conversation with another Norseman, probably the only other countryman in the whole palace. The summons from the King had become a long closely-held conversation with the king’s wife, and Finan had found himself a space on one of the long benches, where he had been speedily and consistently served strong ale by a steward as he waited for Uhtred to finish. The conversation with the Queen became a debate with the Mercian eldormen sat alongside her, the king remained slumped over the table, hours went by and the ale went down. He’d watched Athelhelm the Younger and his six household guards stalk out of the hall a few hours earlier and assumed they had long reached their lodgings and beds for the night.

He peered into the alley and could make out three shapes, before he was suddenly grabbed by the front of his tunic and hoisted further into the gloom - he was thrust back into the damp stone side of the alleyway, the breath pushed out of his lungs with the impact - the man had Finan’s mail and leather squeezed in both of his meaty fists and pushed up into Finan’s throat, forcing Finan up onto his toes. He was huge, a head taller than Finan, as wide as a bear, and he filled the alleyway, blocking Finan’s view ofthe trooper’s comrades, who stood close behind their leader in the constricted space. All three silhouettes were framed by dark thick wool cloaks and Finan’s stomach lurched as he realised these were Athelhelm the Younger’s men, they were not tucked up in their beds, they were lurking in the alleyways of Tamweorthin and these cloaks would prove to be coloured red in the daylight, if Finan survived to see the new day. 

‘Well, well, well,’ the warrior growled, ‘What have we caught here, you’re Uhtred’s Irishman?’ He leaned his weight into his fists, pushing on Finan’s throat with each of his words. ‘The one with the big mouth,’ his warm breath on Finan’s cheek. 

‘Ay big man, ya not wrong,’ gasped Finan, as he tried to wriggle higher up the wall to release the pressure on his wind-pipe. His arms were pinned to his sides by the pressure of the man’s torso against Finan’s body, he could feel the body heat steeping into him and Athelhelm’s man pushed a ginormous knee between Finan’s legs to force them apart, taking one of Finan’s feet completely off the ground. And suddenly there was a stone of worry sitting in Finan’s chest because for a wild moment he was clear that this violence was about to get sexual, and his stomach lurched again, sloshing the excess ale in his gut. The household guard took one of his hands from Finan’s throat, holding it close up to Finan’s face to splay it out and wiggle the fingers in a little coy celebratory wave, a grin spread across the man’s broad flat face, and then the hand disappeared from view to move slowly down to the laces at Finan’s breeches. The man pulled away from Finan slightly to make room for his manoeuvre and Finan squirmed and twisted, panic spiking. His head was spinning and he felt like spewing, but this change of tack was certainly sobering him up. 

‘You can’t afford me ya ugly Saxon shite,’ wheezed Finan. ‘My big mouth and what it can do costs a lot of money,’ he whispered as he wrestled one of his arms freer and grabbed at the man’s wrist as it reached for Finan’s groin. 

‘Oh I have no intention of paying for it Irishman,’ hissed the guard, and with one hand firmly planted on Finan’s crotch he used the other at his neck to suddenly pull Finan off the wall and crash him backwards so fast that Finan’s head slammed back with a resounding crack before he was able to brace himself. He felt darkness cloud his vision and his legs sagged, he let go of the guard’s wrist, his weight taken by the giant’s knee and chest, and he wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t appreciate just how fucked he was. The man’s fingers began to scrabble at Finan’s laces and try to tug at the waist of his breeches, but Finan’s mail was getting in the way.

‘Get off me you stinking Saxon shite’ he growled, trying to get his hands up and onto the big man’s chest and failing, and twisting his hips to try and dislodge the hand that was worming its way into his waistband and failing at that too. 

Finan moaned, blinking hard, and tried to take in some deep breaths, but his breath was shallow and rapid as his crushed lungs tried to fill and his heartbeat was pulsing in his throat as the anger rose. 

‘Where’s your pagan master Irishman?’ The man whispered, leaning close into his ear like a lover, ‘Where is he when you need him eh?’ which Finan took to be a rhetorical question because everyone knew where Uhtred was, he very publicly had his face in Eadgifu’s lavender fragranced tits in the royal hall. 

‘ I think we’ll play with you a little while,’ smiled the giant, ‘see if the cat notices his Irish mouse is missing.’ And with the lower hand still squeezed hard on Finan’s groin, pinning his lower half against the wall, he withdrew his fist from Finan’s throat, pulled his arm back and landed a meaty punch into Finan’s ribs - the mail Uhtred had insisted he wore did little to absorb the impact but did cause Athelhelm’s man to wince as his knuckles met metal. Finan seized that second of emotion to land a head butt square onto the bridge of the man’s nose, pressing his palms flat against the greasy side of the alley to power some momentum, and was satisfied to see the man’s nose squash and split, blood rushing down his lips and chin. 

Then it became frantic as the two other members of Athelhelm’s household troops instinctively crowded forwards, eager to get involved in a bit of Irish bashing, pushing everyone onto the alley’s stone sidewall, and the bear was restricted by the lack of space and Finan was pushed even harder against the wall, both feet completely off the ground now with no leverage, suspended at his throat by one fist and bent arm, air unable to reach his lungs and blood slicked across his face. 

He heard a seax being released from its scabbard, and had a vague thought come randomly into his brain that that wasn’t fair, and a short-drawn punch looped over the giant’s shoulder to land on his eye, but he still couldn’t get his arms free from his sides and a hand grabbed his hair and smashed his head back repeatedly into the wall, and Finan knew then he didn’t have long, and a moan escaped out from his gritted teeth, and blackness started to descend across his vision once more.

‘Put...my...Irishman...down,’ a voice growled, slowly pronouncing each syllable very clearly, the unmistakeable scrape of a sword against scabbard giving the words added force.

The three men, bunched up in the entrance to the alleyway suddenly stopped their attack on Finan, and, breathing hard after their cramped exertions, turned to face Uhtred who stood beyond in the wider palace square, lit by bright white moonlight, sword drawn. Alongside him, and only swaying very slightly, stood Berg, and further back, no doubt at Uhtred’s instruction, stood the boy Rorik, his small arms clasped around Finan’s two short swords and the three men’s helmets. The giant released his hold on Finan’s neck and as he slid down the wall caught him instead on the back of his leather collar, dragging him almost effortlessly out into the broader space, shoving him hard onto the slimy cobbles of the palace courtyard. His two henchmen followed.

‘And here’s the rest of the pagan goat turds,’ the man acknowledged. He reached behind him to grab a piece of his heavy cloak to wipe the blood from his nose and mouth and spat on the ground, then he drew his massive sword. 

‘Finan!’ Uhtred said with cold authority, ‘get up and get over here.’Finan could hear Uhtred, and tried to obey, rolling onto his side, he groaned, trying to push himself up from the ground with two shaky arms. He felt a heavy boot press onto his hip, pushing him back down to the floor, stopping all efforts to rise.

‘Oh no, I don’t think so, Lord,’ and the disdain was laden all over the word “Lord”. 

‘He was caught pissing up the side of a church and the priests have been most insistent that no-one should be pissing up the sides of any church, so he is headed to my Lord Athelhelm for further justice.’ 

‘Finan,’ Uhtred spoke, ‘were you pissing up the side of a church?’

Finan rolled onto his back, the large leather boot following his movement to end up resting heavily on his stomach. 

‘No Lord.’ He moaned, he couldn’t take a full breath, his hands moved to grip the ankle of the leather boot pressing down on him. ‘I was about to piss up the side of a church,’ he wheezed, ‘but I was interrupted.’ He coughed and winced, his head was spinning, he felt very sick. ‘These lads took a shine to me and we were discussing terms.’

Uhtred was resting the tip of Serpent Breath on the cobbles, he was breathing deep and fast because he was angry, breath misting in the dark air. 

‘Looks like he wasn’t able to take a piss before you three jumped him.’ Uhtred spoke softly, ‘Why did negotiations break down, could you not afford him or do you need your humps to be dead or unconscious before you can begin?”

‘That’s exactly what we were discussing Lord.’ Finan spluttered.

At that moment a metallic clang rang out across the courtyard and the three guards looked momentarily towards the sound, which was caused by one of Finan’s short swords dropping from Rorik’s grasp to the floor. 

Uhtred took advantage of the distraction and with a roar hurled himself towards the first of Athelhelm’s men, closing the gap with a sudden leap forwards, his sword raised level with the man’s stomach. The warrior stepped off of Finan’s chest and backwards, but was immediately on top of his own men behind him, who pushed him back towards Uhtred to make room for their own swords. Uhtred was lightning fast, and stepped up and into the man’s space as he stumbled forwards, Serpent Breath’s point suddenly poised sharp and eager under the man’s chin. Berg had similarly rushed forwards, sword drawn and now stood to Uhtred’s side. 

‘Drop your swords’ he whispered, eyes on the warrior’s slab like face looming close above him, prompted skywards by Serpent Breath’s sharp tip under his chin. Uhtred with his free hand, unsheathed Wasp Sting and placed that pointedly into the man’s vast stomach. 

‘Drop your swords now,’ he said again, and was aware of Finan below him and to his right, turning onto his side and trying again to raise himself up. 

The household guard’s eyes slid from Uhtred’s face to a spot over Uhtred’s shoulder, and whatever he saw there was enough of an extra prompt for him to release his grip on his sword and he let it clatter unused to the Roman cobbles, his comrades following his example. 

‘Rorik,’ Uhtred called, ‘what is going on behind us?’ he asked. 

‘Er,’ Uhtred could hear the small boy turn round, jingling with his armful of armour and turn back again, speaking through a grin on his face, ‘Lord Sigtryggr is here Lord,’ he said, ‘and he looks really angry Lord,’ Rorik added happily.

Sigtriggyr and Svart advanced towards Uhtred and Berg, they were both wearing mail and helmets, Sigtriggyr’s gleaming sword held low at his side. Svart re-holstered his giant axe onto his belt at his side and moved towards Finan. 

And for the second time that night Finan was once more grabbed by the scruff of his neck by a huge beast of a man. Svart dragged him back across the square to where Rorik stood and released him gently onto the ground at Rorik’s feet. 

Uhtred’s anger was not subsiding, but through that red rage he heard Sigtrygrr address him. 

‘Uhtred, we need to let these three dogs limp their way back to Athelhelm,’ he calmly stated, ‘We cannot leave three corpses on the streets the night before the Witan’ he said. ‘It’s exactly the provocation Athelhelm is looking for.’ 

Uhtred had stayed up in the man’s face and spoke softly to him now.‘You,’ he grimaced, jerking his sword upwards into the man’s soft gullet as he spoke, ‘You are a dead man.’ He stepped back and lowered his seax and his sword, sheathing both, and turned his back on the trio of Athelhelm’s men to signal just how little of a threat they were. He could hear them behind him gather up their weapons and shuffle away, clanking and jostling each other back up the alley they had ambushed Finan in. 

‘That’s not over Sigtryggr,’ Uhtred stated as he headed past his son-in-law towards Finan’s prone form in the middle of the square. Rorik had crouched down and unburdened himself of the helmets. Uhtred felt a surge of affection for the boy when he saw he was placing each of Finan’s short swords back into their scabbards on either side of his sword-belt, whilst the man himself remained lying on his back, one eye swollen completely shut, and face smeared with blood, although Uhtred thought not all of it was his own. Uhtred’s sharp eyes spotted Finan’s unlaced breeches in the moonlight and the anger surged up and into his chest once more. 

‘Let’s get back to the Bullock,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘We’ll barricade ourselves in there for the night and hope we last until the morning. If we can get in front of the Witan we can make our case to Edward.’ 

Svart stooped to hoist Finan upright and pull Finan’s arm tight across the massive man’s shoulders. Finan felt himself manhandled and bundled along the narrow streets of Tamweorthin as the group made towards the relative safety of the Bullock. Svart grunted as, nearly home, he picked Finan up and threw him like a sack of grain over his shoulders and lumbered on, bursting through the door of the inn and sliding Finan down onto the long bench seat that ran the length of the Bullock’s far side wall. The innkeeper looked startled as he looked up from behind the bar to watch Uhtred slam the tavern’s street door and bar it shut. 

Sigtryggr and Svart then manoeuvred a large heavy bench across the door, whilst Uhtred turned and knelt alongside Finan. 

He spoke to the Innkeeper who had hustled his two serving girls back behind the bar with him as he glanced nervously from one man to the other. 

‘Get some water and some cloths.’Uhtred said.

‘Svart, help me sit him upright, we need to get his mail off.’ 

Svart moved towards Finan and slid a meaty hand under Finan’s neck and effortlessly pulled the Irishman up. Finan stirred and opened his one good eye, his hands moving to Svart’s thick wrist to try and push away the massive paw that was on Finan’s chest to hold him in place. He must be thinking himself back in the alley thought Uhtred wryly, with a giant Saxon with less than good intentions.Between the two men they tugged Finan’s mail up and over his head, and meanwhile one of the serving girls emerged from the inn’s back chamber with a bowl of water and some cloth strips. 

She rinsed the back of Finan’s head with shaking hands, where his hair was dark and matted with blood, leaving the bowl’s water black, and bound his head tightly with clean linen, before Svart gently returned the Irishman to his prone position on the bench. He was conscious but barely, and he lay pliant as the girl continued her work with the cloth, wiping Finan’s face clean of blood. Uhtred had folded a clean dry tunic to create a pillow and Rorik had brought furs down from one of the inn’s rooms to lay over the Irishman. 

Sigtryggr had got his men to check the shutters, and organised a first watch, and the innkeeper had recovered his nerves enough to shepherd the girls to rustle up ale, hard bread and hard cheese. 

There was a total of twelve crammed into the tiny Bullock Inn that night, Uhtred had one man fit and well, Berg, Finan, injured, and a small but robust eleven year old boy, whereas Sigtrygrr had Svart, worth three men, and six other household warriors. His remaining three warriors were taking their turn as watchmen. The rain was beating hard on the thatch roof of the inn, which at least made it less likely that they would be smoked out by fire, but it made it difficult to listen out for Athelhelm The Younger’s troops clodding along the street, so they were heavily reliant on the scouts Sigtrygrr had posted outside. 

‘He has one hundred and twelve men in this town,’ Sigtrygrr said grimly, ‘And we don’t have Finan’s skill anymore’ he said, glancing ruefully over at Finan under his furs. 

‘We’ve got Rorik though’ Uhtred grinned, trying to make light of their predicament. He moved to sit on Finan’s bench up near his head, and Rorik looked up at the mention of his name from where he sat cross-legged in front of the hearth, chomping on a hunk of stale unrelenting crust. 

Uhtred looked down at Finan, who had turned onto his side on the narrow bench, drawing his knees up and facing outwards, no doubt to take the pressure off the cuts to the back of his head. His swollen eye and cheekbone were blackening with bruising but his breathing was steadier and he had seemingly fallen into a proper sleep, made possible by the warmth of the furs and fire. Uhtred pulled the furs higher up over Finan’s shoulder. How close had Uhtred come to losing him tonight? The guilt in the pit of Uhtred’s stomach was heavy, it was down to him that they had marched uninvited into Tamweorthin as a group of three men and a boy, a town seething with enemies and riddled with dark alleys. He had been distracted in the royal hall, had been manipulated by Queen Eadgifu and lost sight of both time and his men. 

He rubbed his face and tired eyes, and leaned back on the bench, resting his head on the wall behind him - one of the servant girls stood in front of him offering a plate of bread and hard cheese which he took gratefully, he hadn’t eaten in Edward’s hall, having been summoned conspicuously right at the end of the feast, and he ate hungrily now. 

‘Rorik,’ he mumbled through a mouthful of bread, ‘Get me some furs, I’ll sleep here tonight, and you then get yourself into the bed, its late, and we have an early start in the morning.’ 

Rorik did as he was asked, and Uhtred laid the furs the boy had brought along the length of the bench, lying head to head with Finan. He heard Sigtrygrr and his men shuffle about and try to get comfortable for the night, and he sensed Rorik shuffling about by the hearth before heading to the back where their tiny chamber was situated. Uhtred’s eyes closed but he replayed the images in his head of Finan being manhandled by Athelhelm’s men, and groaned inwardly at the risk he had run by coming here. He must have been fidgeting and mumbling out loud because a voice beyond his head came out of the soft light of the inn - “for the love of Christ will you stop rocking this bench, it’s like being back on the bastard slave ship” 

Uhtred smiled in the gloom and felt sleep creep up and over him. Tomorrow was another day. 





End file.
